


Paint Water

by naasad



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Autistic Damian Wayne, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Muslim Damian Wayne, Painting, ric grayson - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-06 18:20:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16392749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naasad/pseuds/naasad
Summary: Some things just don't feel real.





	Paint Water

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fandom4life](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fandom4life/gifts).



> This is the fic fandom4life requested after winning the giveaway!
> 
> Fajr, 'Asr, and Maghrib are three of the five Muslim Prayers, at before sunrise, in the late afternoon, and after sunset respectively. The other two prayers (in the fic, but not named) are Dhuhr and 'Isha, just after noon and before bed.
> 
> 'Bismillah' means 'in the name of Allah' and is used at the start of something (anything, really - eating, driving, etc.)
> 
> 'Ya Allah!' means 'O, Allah!' used to ask for something, in this case, strength to bear pain.
> 
> A sajjada is a prayer rug. (There are many other names, too, depending on what part of the world you live in.)
> 
> Wudhu translates to 'ablution' and is the ritual washing of the face, feet, and arms before prayer.

Damian’s routine hadn't altered by much. Wake up, pray Fajr, break fast, and sit in his room, quietly creating.

Bismillah. 

Pencil first. You always had to have a good outline to make a masterpiece.

Damian carefully ran the graphite over the canvas. Details here, open spaces there. It had to be perfect.  ~~Mother always said so. Father would expect nothing less.~~ It just had to be perfect.

The shapes were blocky in their raw form - just unliving squares. He would fix that. Later, he would breath life and personality into them. They would be resolute, steadfast.

He was getting ahead of himself.

Pen, next. Ink, gliding over the lines he would keep, skipping what few mistakes there were. Here, a gargoyle. Here, a steeple.

He took a step back when he was done, trying to discover the nature of it. He could make it dark and foreboding, a warning to their enemies. He could make it hopeful, despite the sharp lines and grotesque figures perched in the shadows.  ~~ He could make it home. ~~

There was a knock at his door.

He reached for a batarang despite himself. An intruder wouldn’t knock, wouldn’t give himself away. “What.”

“Are you ready?” Father asked. 

Damian let go of his weapon and reached for his coat instead. “Give me a moment.”

* * *

 

When they returned, he ran for his room, pushing past Todd on the staircase.

“Hey!” he yelled.

“Jason.” Father stared, shook his head, and took him aside. “What are you doing here?”

Damian didn't stick around to eavesdrop. 

He doubted there would be anything he hadn't heard already.

The canvas was still there, still waiting.

Damian stared at it, unsure how he felt. He shook his head and pulled out his watercolors. It was just a stupid painting.

He took his two cups to the ensuite to fill them. Labeled “Paint Water” and “Not Paint Water”, they had been a gift from - well, that didn't matter.

He carefully set the cups on the side of the sink and leaned over on his elbows. “Ya Allah!” he cried, giving himself a moment to hurt. 

Once that moment was over, he shook his head, washed his face, and went back to his canvas. He took out his brushes and thought of his mother as they soaked and as he rolled them in the pallet.

She had been the one to insist he learned the arts - music, painting, dancing. He wished she would comfort him, but that hadn't been her responsibility in a long time.

Someone knocked again and then opened the door. Only Todd had such poor manners.

“Hey, kiddo,” he called, coming up close behind. “It looks good.”

Damian snorted. “It’s not finished yet.”

Jason shrugged. “It’ll be fucking amazing, then.” He sighed and put his hands on the back of the chair. “Bruce told me where you went today.”

Damian reached for his “Not Paint Water” cup, eager to get out of the conversation as quickly as possible. He spluttered as the bitter taste of paint hit his tongue and spit it back, scowling at the betrayal.

Jason laughed, high pitched giggles of true amusement.

Damian glared at him and continued with his shading. A beeping on his phone interrupted him and he glanced down in gratitude, shooing Jason away as he grabbed his sajjada. “Get out.”

“Lunch is almost ready,” Jason called as he obeyed.

Damian nodded and turned to take comfort in the routine of Wudhu.

* * *

 

Lunch was quick, and eager as he was to finish, Damian took a quick break to walk Titus around the manor grounds.

The dog followed him into his room and he settled at his chair, picking up his brushes. He closed his eyes, breathed, and set out to finish.

The colors blended and whirled together, mixing in ghastly shadows at the bottom, concealing the streets, and growing lighter and lighter as he reached for the top. Clouds. A moon. A single, solitary star peeking through the murk.

There was mist between the buildings now as he started with the windows, bright and clear, sickly and yellow. There were some places the light could never touch.

Stop. Take a break.

Pray ‘Asr.

Alfred brought the afternoon tea up just as he put away the prayer mat. “I heard you had an unfortunate incident with the paint water,” he said, smiling softly.

Damian snorted. “A momentary lapse.”

Alfred set the tray on the bed and put a hand on Damian’s shoulder. “It is good to grieve.”

Damian shrugged off the hand. “He’s not dead,” he snarled.

Alfred held up his hands, trying to placate.

Damian sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Forgive me. I should not have lost my temper. I have… not been myself lately.” He winced at his choice of words.

Alfred nodded sadly. “No one can fault you for that.” He glanced at the painting. “Is that what it looks like from the rooftops?”

Damian nodded and returned to his project. “Thank you for the tea, Pennyworth.”

“You’re welcome, Master Damian.”

And then he was alone again.

~~ He hadn’t been alone like this in so long. ~~

He shook his head, putting away that feeling for another time, and he picked up his brush.

He finished the painting just in time for Maghrib. Signed his rebus, prayed, and went down for dinner.

After the meal, he wrapped up his painting and took his motorcycle down to a familiar apartment in Gotham’s sister city. His key still fit.

He hung the painting above the master bed and turned to leave.

“What are you doing?”

He froze at the sight of his older brother. “I was just leaving. I brought you a gift.”

~~Richard Dick~~ Ric looked up at the painting and frowned. “That’s not me anymore. I told you that this morning.”

Damian sighed. He had hoped for… more. “It’s good to be reminded of who you were, so you can better become who you will be. You taught me that.”

Ric shrugged. “I don’t remember.”

Damian glanced back at the painting. “I miss you,” he blurted, without thinking.

Ric’s face darkened. “Get out.”

Damian nodded and left the way he came.

The rest of the family was just beginning to suit up.

“Where did you go?” Bruce demanded.

“I had a delivery to make. Excuse me, it’s time for me to pray.”

Bruce nodded, but squinted suspiciously.

Damian took his time. Meditating after prayer until he was certain the others had left.

He suited up and went to meet Todd.

“Ready?” the Red Hood asked.

Robin nodded. “Ready.”


End file.
